


Remember Me

by sayanara



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drama, Eremika - Freeform, F/M, Memory Loss, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 17:58:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4109926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sayanara/pseuds/sayanara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a bike accident, a young man's girlfriend loses all her memory of who he is. Determined to get it back, he attempts many different methods to try to bring her back to him, failing miserably a couple of times along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A request on tumblr that turned into a little something more. I expect the chapters of this story to be a lot shorter than all my others, since this is really just an incredibly long one shot that I figured would be done best as a miltu-chap fic. Anyways, enjoy! (Listen to the story's [music playlist](http://8tracks.com/naralynnia/remember-me).)

 

 

 

— **o—**

 

It's been three weeks.

Three weeks since she awoke to find him sitting, right there, by her hospital bed.

Gasping.

Smiling.

Thanking God.

Eren still remembers: how her lids peeled open to unveil old friends, eyes he'd grown so damn accustomed to. Her face was bruised and scratched and her lips were chapped and pale-looking, the usual roseate stains of her cheeks no longer there. She was white as a sheet. Whiter than the bandages wrapped around her head, than the cast on her arm, than the curtains on the windows that revealed the dusky world outside. It was only 6 pm, but already the sun was departing from the sky, the whole world brimming with the impending threat of darkness, artificial lights flashing on all around to cling to some sliver of its heat.

The entire room had breathed in unison; the walls expanded and collapsed with each of her family member's sighs of "Thank, God" and "Finally" and "Hi baby. How do you feel?"

Eren hadn't spoken. Instead, he'd wallowed in the way her eyes perused the room, how her fingers twitched slightly, how her lips parted and allowed breath to slip free.

"Mom," she'd said.

"Dad," she'd said.

"Armin," and then she'd started crying.

Eren gasped. Smiled. Thanked God again.

Because his girl was awake now, she was fine, she was breathing, she was taking in a breath to say, "Hey."

Her voice was frail and raspy.

Her fingers twitched a little more.

Her eyes glazed over with tears.

Droplets of water spilled down her cheeks, then his, then everyone else's. Eren, a non-believer, kept thanking God again and again.

They all closed in around her, showering her with praises and benign whispers of "you don't look  _that_ bad" and "do you remember what happened?" and "Eren was the one who found you" and "Eren. You see? He's right there beside you".

Then, slowly, her eyes had trailed over to where he sat.

She stared at him.

Neither of them said a word.

"H-hey," he eventually mustered. "Welcome back. I've—" but he never got to finish his words.

Because then she'd frowned at him, pursed her lips, squinted her once-friendly eyes and tore his heart to pieces.

"Who are you?"

Eren suddenly forgot how to breathe.

The sun continued setting, the room stilled with an ensemble of gasps, the whiteness of the curtains and her face and her fingers screamed at him simultaneously, shrilling cries in his ears and eyes as he watched the bruises on her face absorb the usual tenderness in her expression, sucking it out of her features and he watched, helpless, as it all vanished right in front of him. There was nothing he could do. There was nothing he could think to say to her.

"You don't remember him, Mikasa?"

"No."

All eyes landed on him. 

All mouths opened in astonishment. 

He could feel his heart thumping away in his throat.

"You mean, you don't know who he is?"

"No. I don't."

The world grew darker.

The air grew colder.

His heart was just about ready to jump out of his mouth.

"I don't know him. Who is he? Why's he here?"

For a second, Eren thought that she'd been joking. "Oh, c'mon, Mikasa. Stop. You're not funny." But then he'd kept staring at her, and she'd kept staring back, and there was no trace of humor in her face, no trace of  _anything_.

It was so cruel, how she'd said the words again. She'd looked at him in the eyes and said them. Cruelly, coldly, said:

"Who are you?"

And then, suddenly, Eren knew what it was to have an entire hospital building collapse over his head.

 

* * *

 

"It's called retrograde amnesia."

The ceiling fan spins round and round and round and round, pushing Armin's words this way and that in the rush of wind it's emitting. His words are like that old, nasty medicine Mom used to feed him when he was a sick as a kid. Disgusting. Repulsive. Slithering down his throat like venom. Eren's little body used to do everything to reject it, but he always drank it anyway, since it's what was best for him in the end.

That's how he ingests his best friend's words, trying desperately not to accept them but relenting all the same. He stares at the blades that reel round and round like propellers, laying on his back atop his bed, a hand thrown carelessly above his head, the other scratching up and down his belly.

"It happens with some severe cases of head trauma," Armin continues, selecting a doughnut from the Dunkin' Donuts box he brought along with him to  _cheer you up,_ _buddy_ _!_  "The doctors say she's able to remember everything that happened up to two years before the accident."

"So she remembers everyone but me." He's still scratching his belly, staring up at the fan, gagging at the venomous-yet-necessary medicine that Armin's pretty intent on forcing down his throat.

"Seems like it. They say she's lost the last two years of her life."

Eren sighs, closing his eyes, feeling his chest clench around the space where his heart should be. There's that imminent threat of sadness, but the careful state of numbness he's trained himself into wards it off. "Great."

"Want one?" Armin's offering him a doughnut.

"Nope." Eren doesn't even bother to open his eyes.

"'Kay." Then they sit in silence while his best friend bites into his food, chews, wipes some jelly off the corner of his mouth with his fingers. "She doesn't remember you finding her either, or going with her to the hospital. It's like you've just… been wiped out of her mind."

There's another bite into the doughnut, another flake of jelly stuck to his mouth. Eren is silent for long enough that Armin thinks he's gone to sleep now. His hand doesn't even scratch his stomach anymore. He's completely still. Completely silent.

"Eren?"

A beat.

"What?"

"I think you should go see her."

"Nope." He doesn't even hesitate before answering. "There's no point."

Armin's already halfway into his doughnut when he looks up at him and drones, "She's your girlfriend, Eren."

"Not anymore."

"Oh, come on, now. It's been three weeks! At least try to start something!"

Eren opens his eyes, only to gawk mindlessly at the ceiling.

"Maybe you can start by being friends again?"

"No, thanks."

"Eren."

He groans, covering his face with his hands talking into his palms so that his voice is muffled when he whines, "I'm not putting myself through that, Armin. It'd be torture."

"So, what, you're just gonna avoid her now?" There's a tinge of annoyance in his voice, a growing frustration, a steer away from the usually-patient Armin that he knows. "You're just gonna pretend you're not the one she's been with for the past two years?"

Eren's quiet for a moment, staring at the fan, frowning, thinking of how it resembles the endless spinning of the wheels of her mangled bicycle when he—

"No."

"No what?"

"Just no."

Armin gives an exasperated sigh, stuffing his face with more dough and jelly and sugar. He looks a little pissed, but Eren knows he can't blame him. Who wouldn't be angry after their best friend decides to fall off the face of the earth and refuse to talk to them for three whole weeks? Eren's done nothing but lay about in his house like a damn slug, reliving the torturous events of that damned day over and over and over again.

Eren's mind wanders.

And he sees people, a crowd, gathered around a broken body.

And he sees  _her,_  blinking, dazed, laying on the side of the street, her arm bent the wrong way, the rest of her all scraped and bruised and oozing.

Blood coming out of her head.

Staining his hands.

Filling his nostrils.

Her eyes shouting out fear and dread and panic. Calling his name, his name, his name.

" _Eren."_

" _Shhh, it's okay."_

" _I'm gonna die."_

" _You are not. You are not. Don't even say that."_

The wails of sirens.

The garbled cries of strangers.

The eyes that watched him and begged.

" _Eren."_

" _Yeah?"_

" _Can you hold me till they come?"_

" _I will."_

" _Promise me."_

" _Please."_ Tears had burned ridges on his face. _"Please, just stop."_

The screech of tires burning on asphalt.

The loud opening and slamming of doors.

The eyes that clouded over. Sleepy. Hazy. Occult.

Leaving him forever.

" _I didn't even see it coming. The car, it—"_

" _It's okay, shhh. It's okay, it's okay."_

The way she gradually turned colder.

Colder.

Colder.

" _I love..."_

The words she never got to say.

" _I..."_

Her body, suddenly gone limp in his arms.

The broken bicycle beside them.

The wheels that spun and spun and spun.

The daunting prick of loss, puncturing his lungs and deflating them.

His entire life bent over.

" _Who are you?"_

And then snapped right in half.

" _You don't… You don't remember?"_

" _Mikasa, he's your—"_

" _Get him out."_

What? What?! Everyone had asked her. What did you say?

" _I don't know him. Mom. Dad. Get him out."_

Get him out.

Get him out.

**Get him out.**

Eren closes his eyes again. "No," he sighs. "I have a better idea."

Armin looks up from his doughnut, which has dwindled down to about a third of it's previous size. "What are you planning, Eren?"

"Retrograde amnesia..." he whispers. The words feel like some sort of voodoo spell on his tongue. "My dad's dealt with some patients who've had it."

"And?"

Silence.

A quiet moment for thought.

An inhale to keep on talking. 

"And some of them have been able to get their memories back—"

"Eren, stop."

"—completely. They've gotten all of it back. All of it."

Armin's sighs is so heavy that crumbs that clung on to the fabric of his shirt fall down his chest. "Yeah, but this is _two whole years_ we're talking about here. Two! And even if the memories  _do_ return, she might remember a big fight you two had before she even remembers the first time you told her you loved her. It's mind bogging. Think of it as a jigsaw puzzle, Eren, and all the pieces are being thrown at you sporadically and in no convenient order. It's going to be hard for her. Things like this take time."

Eren's not even listening to him. He sits up on the bed, staring at his bare feet for a moment before jumping off the mattress to make his way to the closet, all the while Armin's eyes are on him like a leech.

"Eren…" He pulls the closet doors open, feeling Armin's gaze on his back as he rummages through his clothes. "Eren, what are you planning?"

The hangers clink together, shrieking as he slides them over the metal rod. He decides on a dark gray sweatshirt, yanking it free and throwing it on before declaring:

"I'm gonna get her to remember me."

Armin goes silent. Eren holds still.

Wait for it.

_Wait for iiiiiiiiiiiitttt…_

"YOU CAN'T DO THAT!!!!"

Boom. And there it is. The distressed squeal of his best friend after he offers something preposterous.

"Well, I'm gonna try." He slides on a pair of mismatched socks, bouncing up on one leg whilst ramming his feet into some old boots he found scattered around in his closet. He stands up straight, looks at his best friend in the eye and tells him, "And there's nothing you can do about it."

"Eren!"

"Sorry, Armin."

"Don't!"

"I'm gonna."

"But you'll only hurt—!"

"Don't you understand?!" He whips around so quickly, Armin nearly chokes on a glob of dough. His hands move about in the air, accentuation his agony. "I can't have her forget me! I can't! I can't live with that, Armin. With her looking at me like I'm a stranger, some sort of freak! Did you see how she looked at me back at the hospital? She has no fucking idea who I am!"

A cough. That's it. That's all Armin answers with.

"She's my life, okay? My fucking _life_." Tears sting in his eyes, but he screws them shut, shaking his head, huffing with anger. "These past few weeks have been hell for me. I've tried to convince myself that it doesn't affect me but I just can't do it anymore! I don't care what anyone says. I'm bringing her back to me."

"But..." Armin stumbles to his feet—still holding the doughnut—and reaches out to grab Eren by the wrist. "Wait! Where are you going?"

"Home," he answers simply, his fingers already ringed around the doorknob. "I'm going home, Armin."

Icy blue eyes scrunch up in confusion, the cogs of a usually-adept brain whirring as his friend tries to gauge the reality of his reply.

"But... you _are_ home, Eren."

His reply makes him boil.

"Oh, goddammit."

And then BAM! The door slams shut behind him, leaving Armin all alone in his bedroom, nibbling fretfully on his doughnut, groaning as he runs a hand down his face and breathes out a dreary, "Ohhhh, brother."

The ceiling fan spins round and round and round and round.

 

* * *

 

Eren's footsteps squelch over the mud. It's been raining. Water drizzles over everything, enveloping him in its faint, ticklish embrace. The air is humid and muggy and gross, clogging up his lungs and his throat and shrinking his clothes closer to his body. His sweater doesn't have a hood, so his hair is damp and sticking to his forehead. He makes the trek up the small slope leading to her house.

It takes him two minutes to get there.

It takes him two more to jump over the fence, climb up the steps to the porch, and sneak around the right side of the house to find her. His boots leave muddy footprints behind him, but he doesn't care. Her parent's house is large enough to have the porch spread out to both sides around it, so he peeks in through the living room window, somehow knowing that she'd already be there. And he's right.

_There she is._

He hasn't seen her in three weeks.

_And there she is._

She's laying down on the sofa with the cast over her chest, staring out at nothing, and even from this angle, Eren can see the way her eyelashes bat slowly as she blinks. Her face is stoic and serious, the bruises on her skin faded practically to nothing, a small scratch below her right eye present in their place. Eren peers inside with only one eye, so that if she were to turn her gaze to look at him, he'd have enough time to dart away and hide.

From this distance, he admires her.

His eyes scan the stretches of her bare legs, propped up on the left arm of the sofa, her unbroken hand reaching down to draw circles on the floor with her index finger. He wonders what she's thinking, shattering at the thought that there is no possibility that it's him. Still, he hopes. Still, he stares at her.

"Mikasa," her name leaves his lips in a whisper. It isn't cold outside, and yet he sees his own breath fog before him. There's a chill that works its way up his insides as he watches her, wanting with all his might to break the glass of the window and just teeter right inside.

But such things aren't possible.

They're pointless. Everything is pointless.

She's forgotten who he is.

Two whole years of her life, two whole years he was unfortunate enough to be exclusively a part of, have been wiped out of her memory completely. The spaces he once filled so vibrantly have been extinguished like weak flames, blown off by the wind, carried away like nothing.

He doesn't realize that he's held his fingertips to the glass, poring over the soft sways of the cast on her chest with her breaths. She closes her eyes, dreaming of mysteries. He wonders if her arm still hurts her,  _how_  it hurts her, what parts of her body hurt the most. He imagines the spaces he'd be kissing, caressing with his touch and drawing over with his lips until she felt better. He imagines how her skin might feel, if only he could touch it. Cold and frigid, the foggy glass is a far cry from her familiar warmth.

She's forgotten him entirely.

She's forgotten who he is.

Everything is so damn pointless.

Eren think he's going to cry, but he stops himself, takes a breath breath, and blinks the tears away. He hasn't allowed himself to cry at all in the past three weeks since the whole hospital scenario, as if grieving over her loss of memory would only cement the truth deeper into existence. He'd imagined that moment so many times before: what would happen when she finally woke up to find him, to see him sitting right by her side. He thought that perhaps she'd start crying, tell him that she loved him, something. Just something. Something along that.

But it's all so wrong now. He should be  _in there_  right now, holding her, talking to her, figuring out what's going on inside her head—not looking in from a fogged up window, for fuck's sake. It's all wrong. It's all wrong. It's all so fucking wrong and it kills him, it kills him, it breaks his heart.

Her chest rises and falls softly, beautifully, gently and in all the right ways.

And he thinks he can still hear her voice. He thinks that he still hears her.

" _I love..."_

_I love..._

"I love you," and Eren knows he's such a fool. He whispers out to a girl that can't hear him, to a girl that's no longer his, and still his heart beats and throbs and bleeds in the places she once had been—in the places she  _still_  is.

"I love you."

And he'll say it a thousand times more.

He feels the tears coming again. Lacking the strength to go to the front door and knock, to go inside and talk to her, to allow the droplets to form and fall, he stands outside, staring, sticky, cold and jealous of every being that's still alive in her mind, knowing full and well that despite what Armin or anyone else says, he's going to do it. He's going to do it.

He's going to help her remember who he is.


	2. The First Attempt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about taking forever to update this story. I've been focusing on Not Over Yet and lest we mention all the time it took me to complete Drizzle. Anywho, I hope you guys enjoy this new installment. Make sure to leave reviews and share your thoughts!

 

— **o—**

 

**12:04 PM**

It happens on a Tuesday.

His mother offers to take him to the Ackermans' house. She's stopping by, she says. She's helping make preparations for the party, she says. Mikasa's gonna be there, she says. Eren declines, his mother whines, he blows her off until she leaves him alone and it all happens on a Tuesday.

Summer vacation's here, and it's been three weeks since Eren last saw Mikasa. Armin teases him about it, says that he's acquired a three-week-rule or some shit. But Mikasa remembers Armin so Armin can afford to crack jokes because his sky is still blue and hanging over his head while Eren's has burst into a freak show of endless black and thundering gray so his head's always bowed and he's always looking down because it's haunting. School doesn't start again for another two months and he's already bored with his life. Plus, he's got more free time to think about Mikasa and the fact that she doesn't remember him and that her parents are throwing a party today to celebrate her recovery—and how selfish of Eren; he doesn't want to celebrate, he wants to cry.

And he does.

Water pounding on his back, hunching his all-too-tired posture, it washes down his sobbing frame. He presses one hand over his eyes, and the other palm-flat against the tiled walls of his shower. Holding himself up (just barely), and swaddled in steam and heat, he cries because he's only seventeen, and fragile, and confused and scared and lonely. And he hasn't cried since Mikasa kicked him out of her hospital room, since he'd held her hand and stroked her hair and counted all the little cuts on her lips and cheeks and arms and then she'd opened her eyes andretrograde amnesia became the worst fucking thing that could ever happen to him, ever.

He hates it. He hates _this_. He hates that she's forgotten all the kisses, all the jokes, all the silent I love you's. Eren remembers thinking once that if he could fall in love with her all over again, he would do it. But not like this. What is this? It's all wrong. What's the point in doing anything in life when it can all be wiped out in a second? It's fucking scary and sad and so he cries—for the first time in over a month—freely.

By the time all the soapy water and tears are swirling down the drain, Eren is exhausted. It's Tuesday, and merely noon, and he woke up just a few minutes ago but he's already intent on going back to bed.

Bare-chested and with his sweatpants clinging to his hips, he potters over to his bedroom, closing his eyes and wallowing in the tranquility of his empty home. He towels at his hair, sighing, until a sudden crunch makes his heart jump and his reflexes wind him to a fighting stance.

“Hey,” says the source of the noise, raising a blonde eyebrow whilst munching on some chips— _Eren's_ chips.

“Jesus fuck, Armin.” He drops his fists with an exasperated huff. His best friend continues to chew calmly without bothering to offer any sort of explanation. So, plopping on his bed with a soft groan, Eren asks him, “What are you doing here?”

“Your mom told me you aren't going to the party.”

“I'm not.”

“I know that.” Crunch. Munch. A gross, audible swallow. “That's why I'm here.”

Eren scowls at the ceiling, making out the little clumps of dust that cling to the blades of his ceiling fan. He spots enough to conclude that it needs a thorough cleaning, but then darkness floods his vision and he throws an arm over his eyes.

“Whaddaya want, Armin?”

“To convince you to go with me.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Armin…”

“Eren, I'm serious. It's not good for you to be isolating yourself this way. Plus, I heard you crying in the shower.”

He bolts, sitting upright on the bed. “Dude!”

Armin simply shrugs a mild shoulder. “I've been sitting here for a long time.”

Eren sighs wearily, running a hand down his face. “I don't know, man. What if… What if I show up and she asks me to leave again? I can't take that shit a second time. It would kill me.”

“I know, I know. But I have a plan.” This makes him perk up. Armin allows himself a satisfied little smirk, quickly concealing it with another chip flung into his mouth. “I've been thinking about what you said. About bringing her memory back.”

“…And?”

“I think we can do it.”

Eren's eyes nearly bulge out of his face. “Really?!”

“I can try to help you but—“ he grunts when an overly-excited Eren explodes out of his place on the bed and throws his arms around him, crushing the bag of chips between them and crying, “I love you! I love you so much!”

“Eren, I can't breathe.”

“Sorry, sorry.”

“Okay, but you have to listen to me. Listen to me first.” His best friend nods enthusiastically, beads of water rolling down the side of his face from his damp hair. “This is, by all means, a terrible idea,” Armin reminds him in a warning tone. “It has the potential to end in absolute _disaster._ If you were to mess up in the slightest, it can get you on her bad side forever. We're talking like, full-blown Mikasa rage here. Grudges, fists thrown at you, cars trying to run you over.”

Eren rolls his eyes, but nods in understanding. “Okay.”

“There's no erasing her memories again. This is her now. This is her life. Two years have been wiped out of her mind—possibly forever—along with all the people she met during that time period.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Eren, I need to make sure that you completely understand. Mikasa can't remember you.”

“I _know_.”

“You're a total stranger to her, whether you like it or not. We're starting from zero here. Zero.”

“Armin, I know all that.”

“You have to know how to control yourself, Eren. No losing your temper. No being too forward about your emotions. No shouting. No fighting. No you being… you.”

Slightly wounded, his eyes wince. “Then what am I supposed to be?” he huffs. Armin's features are unnaturally serious.

“Gentle.”

“I can be gentle.”

“Eren...”

“I can! Dude, I can be gentle.”

A long, tired sigh flows out of his best friend's mouth. “Right,” and he seems very tired all of a sudden. Perhaps he's regretting himself. Perhaps. But Eren bounces to his feet and chippers—before his friend can even _think_ to change his mind:

“So what's the plan?”

 

* * *

 

**3:39 PM**

Armin is, by all means, a genius. It's always been up to him to come up with the ideas, and to shoot down Eren's not-so-genial ones.

So when he proposed that they, for lack of a better word, “crash” the party and simply _approach_ Mikasa, Eren couldn't help but question—for the first time in his life—the practicality of his best friend's plan. (But it's not like he could come up with anything better himself. So he listened, and swore to do exactly as instructed—doubts and all.)

The plan goes as follows: He is to go up to Mikasa and simply talk to her, introduce himself the way a stranger would and then take it from there. According to Armin's calculations, chances of failure are 43%, whereas the remaining 57% is split between absolute success or total lack of procession (a.k.a Mikasa's being indifferent to him, which, if anything, is just as bad as her straight up punching him in the face). So that makes it a 71.5% chance of it all ending up in a cluster fuck, and a 28.5% chance of things actually going well. If you round it up by the nearest one, it becomes a full 29%. Still daunting, but good enough. A man's gotta take what he can get sometimes.

Eren's never been a man of faith, but he clings desperately to that 29% with the hope of a madman. Because one need be mad in order to hope—especially in a situation such as this one.

They take the forsaken trek up to her home. By the time they reach her porch, they're both out of breath but for complete different reasons. Armin, because he's out of shape. And Eren, because his heart's rocketed up to his throat and it beats so furiously he can't even swallow, let alone breathe.

Three weeks ago, he'd stood right here. And there was no music playing quietly, nestled inside the now-foreign walls of a once-familiar home. Three weeks ago, there had been nothing but the faint drizzle of rain, the tears that never came, and the phantom presence of the girl he so direly adores laying idly on the sofa in her living room.

Armin claps a reassuring hand on his shoulder, but it does little to calm his nerves. Every hair on his body is on point, every inhale and exhale and nuance to his posture deliberately measured. He's never been more tense, more anxious, more outright fucking terrified than what he is the moment that front door flies open and his own mother's face brightens up to greet them both.

“Oh!” she exclaims, her brown eyes twinkling in the afternoon light. “So, how much?”

“Five,” Armin drones beside him. Eren raises a puzzled brow.

“Ten,” his mother retorts. What the shit are they talking about?

His best friend gives a drawn-out sigh, and paws at his jean pockets for his wallet. Taking out a ten dollar bill, he groans in defeat and hands the money over to his mother, who's quick to flash a grin and pluck it out of his hands with a little laugh.

Eren's jaw goes slack, astounded.

“You two _bet_ on me coming?!”

“There was a high chance you wouldn't comply, honey,” Carla says, slipping the folded bill inside her bra. _Gross._ “It was nice doing business with you, Armin. Sorry 'bout your loss.”

“A slice of your apple pie should be able to make up for it, Mrs. Jaeger.”

She winks at him. “You got it, hun.”

“I am going. To fucking. Puke.” Eren screws his eyes shut, grimacing at their little exchange. Both Carla and Armin bark out a laugh, and then his hand's seized by his mother and she pulls him into the house.

Immediately, he smells it: food, and candles, and air freshener, and just the overall cleanliness that's as much of a constant occupant as Mikasa's stay-at-home mom. His eyes instinctively shoot around to gaze at everything, to search every nook and cranny for a trace of Mikasa but he finds none. Dejected, Eren swallows down a mighty clump of air and puts on his most enthusiastic face, smiling brightly at the sight of her parents.

“Eren,” Mrs. Ackerman chirps, curling her lanky arms around him in an embrace. “It's so good to see you.”

He pats her back with a light hand. “You too,” and he could burst into tears at her faint smell, at how soft and warm she feels and how he hasn't held her like this in over a month and suddenly, Eren realizes how much he's missed the Ackermans.

Mr. Ackerman is the second to wrap him up in an embrace, squeezing his strong arms around him so tightly Eren lets out an involuntary grunt.

“Eren!” he laughs, lifting him off the ground a few centimeters. “I've missed you, bud!”

“I've missed you too,” he wheezes, wriggling awkwardly in his hold. Armin and Carla laugh quietly beside them. A few of the party guests have fixed their gazes on them. _Great._

“We were so worried you wouldn't come,” he says after setting him back down and releasing him. “We all took a bet on whether you'd show up or not. Looks like Armin did a good job of convincing you—and is now ten bucks poorer, too.”

“Don't remind me,” his blonde friend sighs. Eren gapes as Mikasa's mom slyly hands a ten dollar bill over to her husband.

“You too?!” he squeals. Laughter drowns out his moan of exasperation.

“Don't sweat it, kiddo,” Mr. Ackerman smiles. “It's really great to see you. We're all just happy that you came.”

“Where's Mikasa?” Carla asks. Eren tenses at the sound of her name.

“Upstairs,” her mother says, swiping a finger over a pert eyebrow. The motion must be code for something, because Eren's mother pecks him on the cheek and promises to return, disappearing up the stairs and leaving him behind to mingle with all the gawking faces.

Today is going to be a very long day. He can feel it.

 

* * *

 

**4:08 PM**

It's a whole thirty minutes of mingling and chatting and munching mindlessly on snacks before Eren hears the tired whines of old floors complaining under footsteps.

Mikasa's house is pretty ancient, so whenever someone walks around upstairs you can hear the hardwood floors creaking from a mile away. Nobody else seems to notice, but Eren's ears are attuned to every noise and indication of Mikasa's presence, so he tenses at he first squeak, looks over at Armin at the second, and by the third, his mother materializes at the top of the stairs and clears her throat loud enough for them to hear.

All heads turn her way.

The noise of copious chatter dwindles to a muted breath.

“Sorry for the wait, everyone,” she smiles. Eren can see the happy glimmer of her pearly teeth all the way from where he stands. “Alright, sweetie,” she whispers to someone over her shoulder. “It's okay. I'll be right here beside you. You look great, I promise.”

The wait that follows is unbearable.

Eren fights the urge to run for his life. Every miniscule, microscopic atom in his being wails with anxiety. His muscles on his back and shoulders ache from how tight he's winded them. His head spins. His heart gallops. His soul trembles and his bones rattle and Eren has never known fear such as this. He wants to run. He needs to run. This was a mistake—he's gotta get out of here!

But then, a squeak.

Two.

Three.

And Mikasa stands before them. At the top of the stairs. With her cast on her arm and her feet laced up in a pair of heels and a pink summer dress clinging to her frame, flowing out around her waist and ending just above her kneecaps. Her gaze is cast low, away from everybody. And still Eren sees how her lashes flit softly and imagines every individual preen, all the tears they have collected in the span of the last few weeks without him there to catch them. Her lips part, and he yearns for the sound of her voice, the sound of her breathing. And then she looks up. And her eyes meet his. And his eyes meet hers. And suddenly, Eren doesn't want to run anymore.

Her expression is unreadable.

For a breath, he wonders if she recognizes him. He hopes. Like a madman, he hopes.

But then she looks away from him, and his heart wilts, and she smiles at all those she can recognize and says, “Thank you for coming, everyone.” Jean whistles loudly somewhere in the crowd, and Mikasa's eyes roll as she makes her way down the stairs, sliding a tentative hand over the railing to keep from tripping over her heels.

She doesn't recognize him.

She can't.

She has no idea that he cried today, how much courage it took him to show up at her party, how fucking horrible yet incredible he feels because she's here and his eyes have longed for the sight of her for so long—it's like they're gasping in relief at how she looks today.

Armin places a hand on his shoulder. “Be strong,” he tells him. Like always, his best friend's somehow managed to read his thoughts.

“I'm fine,” Eren lies, knocking back a swig of his fruit punch. “Just fucking peachy.” In his friend's blue eyes, something sad clouds his enthusiasm.

Eren pretends he doesn't notice it.

 

* * *

 

 **4:25** **PM**

“And then I was like, 'bro, what the fuck? Do you even lift?' and then he was like—”

“Reiner Braun, if you talk for one more second, I am going to rip your balls off and fling them across the room.”

“Damn, Ymir. Chill.”

“No, seriously. I think I'm with her in this one. Shut up already.”

“Shut up, Sasha.”

“Connie, shut up.”

“ _You_ shut up!”

“Guys, please! Can't we all just be supportive of Eren here and pick another day to bicker over absolutely nothing? Please?”

“Shit. You're right. Sorry, Eren.”

“Yeah, dude. You must be feeling like shit right now.”

“I feel great.”

“The first stage of grief: denial. _Ow!_ ”

“Keep being an inconsiderate butthole and it'll be your face I punch next.”

“Fine, okay. Jeez.”

“Where's Armout?”

“Over there talking to Mikasa and Jean.”

“Hey, Eren. You wanna go join them?”

“No, thanks.”

“You gotta go up to her sooner or later, man.”

“Not yet.”

“Okie dokie.”

“Okay, but, I mean, I'm just saying. You should probably be quick and try to remind her that you're the one that popped her cherry before Jean tries to take that away from you, 'cause—”

“Okay, that's it. I'm beating the shit out of you.”

“Ymir, no!”

“Get him!”

“Stop!”

“Not the face, not the face!”

“Guys! We're gonna get kicked out if you don't—”

“Ymir, oh my god. Ymir!”

“I'm sorry, Eren. You deserve more decent friends.”

“Yup. I do.”

 

* * *

 

**4:40 PM**

“I really think, sweetheart,” Mrs. Ackerman croons over a glass of wine. “That you should simply go to her and tell her who you are.”

“That's the plan,” he says, taking a sip of his own wine. He's underage, but Mikasa's mother let him sneak a plastic cup filled halfway with Chardenet for “good measure—but please don't tell your mom.” It tastes like shit, but it's worth the liquid courage.

“I only suggest,” she hiccups, apologizing with a startled, embarrassed gasp that reminds him so much of Mikasa it actually puts a smile on his face. “Sorry. Anyway, my only suggestion is that you don't mention anything too forward. We've tried to help her recollect a few snippets of her life from the past two years, but her mind's still very foggy. She knows that you two were friends once. At least that much she has come to accept.”

“But she still remembers nothing about me? Nothing at all?”

“I'm sorry, love. But no. It simply… doesn't work that way.”

Eren stares at his wine for a long time. It swirls in his cup; a crimson twist he wishes would somehow drown him.

“I guess I'm just hoping for a miracle,” he breathes, feeling the first few buzzes of intoxication.

Mrs. Ackerman sighs sadly. “Aren't we all?”

 

* * *

 

 **5:00** **PM**

“Okay, Ar. It's time. I'm going.”

“You got this, Eren. She remembers your parents—and is super close with your mom. She's _gotta_ be nice to you.”

“Yeah, okay. Bye.”

“Be gentle.”

“Bye.”

“Please, Eren.”

“I will!”

“Swear.”

“I swear on my life: I'll be gentle with her.”

“Okay. I just don't want things to end up badly. Neither of you can afford—”

“It'll work out. Trust me.”

“God, I hope you're right.”

 

* * *

 

 **5:01**   **** **PM**

“Hey, uh… hi.”

Mikasa's shoulders are squared. Two twisted locks of her hair are held back by a dainty little hairpin. She stands erect; poised as ever. The whole damn room spins. Eren, dizzy from the wine and the ceaseless screaming of his heart, clears his throat and speaks again.

“Mikasa?”

It's like reviving an old ghost, uttering her name again.

“Yes?” and he's been into fights, he's been knocked out unconscious, he's broken bones and worn casts and split lips and yet nothing can compare to the pain of seeing her face again at such close proximity. She's right there. She's so far away. He should flee. He should touch her. This is stupid, this is pointless, he should give up. He should fight for her. He should run. He should stay. He shouldn't be looking at her the way he is right now.

All the cuts he'd counted on her face weeks before are healed, save for a long, thin gash below her right eye. For a moment, it steals his concentration. Swallowing hard, Eren fights the images from his mind: Mikasa's broken body, her twisted arm, her oozing head, the words she—they—left unspoken.

“Eren.”

It's like reviving an old ghost, uttering his name like that.

“Yeah,” he manages a smile. “It's me. Eren.”

“Yes,” she nods her head once, smoothing down the skirt of her dress. “My mother's mentioned you. You were there at the hospital when I woke up.”

_I was. And you kicked me out 'cause you didn't remember me and you broke my heart into a billion tiny pieces, you know that?_

“I was.”

“I'm…” her bottom lip slips in between her teeth. She chews on it for a moment before heaving a long sigh. “I'm sorry for how I treated you. It was wrong of me. I've reflected on my actions and I've realized that you meant no harm. After all, you were the one that found me.”

_I was. And I thought I felt you die in my arms and it was the scariest fucking feeling in the entire universe. Being trampled by a hundred elephants doesn't compare to the pain of losing you like that._

“Yes.”

“Can I ask you something?” she says, her voice lowering an octave.

He's caught off guard by her question, blinking his eyes profusely as if in a daze. Quick to recompose himself, and staring into her deep, dark eyes, he braves, “Sure, yeah. Go ahead.”

“When did we meet?”

Shit. Okay. Eren doesn't think he's supposed to be answering questions like that.

But her eyes are so big, and imploring. There's a slight furrow to her brows, a particular quirk on her lips that suggests total vulnerability.

“Two years ago,” he says, “after I moved into town.”

“And what were we?”

Fuck. Okay. He's _definitely_ not allowed to be answering questions like that.

But he's talking to her. To Mikasa. And a primal, fundamental yearning in him aches to keep her by his side.

“What do you mean?”

“Before the accident. What were we?”

“We were friends.”

“And that's it?”

“Yes,” he lies. He doesn't know what he'd been expecting, because Mikasa sees right through him. She always does. She always has.

“There's more, isn't there?” she queries, the furrow on her brows passing down to her lips. Something tells him that nobody has bothered to tell her a sliver of the truth. How much does she know? How much have they told her? And why won't they offer her the clarity she's so obviously—and desperately—seeking?

“There is,” he breathes. Mikasa's features harden, her expression turning terribly austere.

“Tell me.”

“I can't.”

“Why not?”

“It's— I can't do that.”

“You know, I've examined myself. My parents have done a fine job of clearing my home of things that may be triggering, but my own body is a trigger in itself.” What does she mean? Eren scrunches his brows in thought, trying to decode the cryptic look she's giving him. But then, she leans in close, and his heart gasps because now he can smell her familiar scent and even the sweetness in her breath when she tells him, “Did you know I'm not a virgin?”

“What?” Eren sputters, surprised. He almost wants to laugh, but Mikasa is completely serious, frowning at something in the distance and whispering:

“I can't remember ever having sex. And with whom? It's sickening to me, not recalling something as important to a woman as her first time. But I checked, and the doctor agrees. I'm not a virgin.”

He can't think of what to say to her. Rubbing an awkward hand at the back of his neck, he sighs, “I'm sorry.”

Her eyes pierce knives into his own.

“Was it you? Was it you who took it?”

“Wait, wha—?”

“My virginity. It was you, wasn't it? I knew it when I saw the look on your face back in the hospital. It's in your eyes. There's just something about them. They're far too familiar to belong to a complete stranger or even a mere friend.”

“I—”

“What were you to me? What did we do? How did we do it? When?”

Eren actually laughs out loud, huffing out a chuckle in disbelief. Mikasa seems irked by this, even more so when he groans, “Why are you asking these questions?”

“You know me, but I have no idea who you are.” Yes, thank you for reminding him. “And it's only two years that have been erased—heck, there's people who forget decades of their lives and are ruined forever. I'm fortunate, I really am. But I feel an empty void inside me, like there's something vital missing and I need to know what once was there. Please, help me find it. If you know anything, tell me. _Please_. Nobody's being honest with me and it's starting to drive me mad. I'm not crazy or incompetent. I can function. I just need to know the truth!”

A thousand thoughts whirl in his head, a thousand voices whisper all the things that burn to be said. Armin said he should be careful. He can't be too forward, he can't be too blunt—even her own mother warned him not to be too honest but the cold, hard truth is banging on his teeth and ripping his lips apart and Eren's mouth feels like it's about to burst with everything he wants to tell her.

_I love you._

_You don't know me but I love you._

_I've loved you for the past two years of my life, Mikasa. I love you, I love you, I love you!_

Then, he cracks.

He tells her everything.

The words are gushing out before he can think to control them, spilling freely into the air and into her ears and her expression is unreadable as he confesses their love, what they went through, how he found her, how long they dated, how she was his first love and he was hers and she will probably never recall any of those things again but he's set in making her remember, in recollecting the last few gems of their lives together and engraving them into the sky so that they shine like stars that she can always look up to and remember who she is and that she may not be herself right now but that's okay because he's going to help her figure it all out, he's got a plan, he's got a purpose.

When he's done talking, they both are out of breath. Mikasa stares vacantly at a point in space, folding her arms at her front and absorbing all the new information. The second he notices the far-off look in her eyes, he regrets himself immediately. He's about to open his mouth to take it all back, to somehow cram his mistake back into himself and erase it from existence but what has been done cannot be undone, and it's a cruel reminder when she—whose life has been undone by a large chunk—blinks up at him and asks, “So… it was _you_ that I had sex with?”

To be honest, that it the last thing Eren expected her to ask. But he may as well just keep being honest with her. He may as well just confess:

“Yes.”

“Just once?”

“Um… no?”

“ _More_ than once?”

“I mean, yeah.”

“How many times?”

“I sort of… lost count?”

“You lost count.”

“Yup.”

“Of the times.”

“And the places.”

The last things Eren sees is a hefty fist swinging to the side of his head at full-force, and the frantic scramble of feet racing to his limp body on the floor before a swallowing darkness consumes everything.

 


End file.
